


Stars

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Battle of Camlann, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:14:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24186457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: On the evening before the Battle of Camlann, Mordred seeks his Gods and their guidance. Who the Gods deem worthy of sending takes him by surprise, but he still finds what he asked for.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Stars

Ah, yes, this. This he knew. The darkness, only the light of the stars, the moon not daring to show her face, not wanting to bear witness to the coming atrocities. He was pacing in his war tent, sleep evading him and exhaustion not daring to touch him lest it find exactly how deep his rage could reach, how much his battle prowess could, in fact, destroy.

“Sir,” someone whose name he had already forgotten, some low-level general who would not live long enough for his name to be worth remembering, “everyone is in their place for the morning.”

“We will meet his armies on the field at first light,” Mordred snapped before he could register speaking was the better course to take, “No one is to move from the preparation grounds before I give the word.”

“Understood, sir,” the poor bastard whose life and name alike would be lost before the next day's light died said before exiting back into the night.

He dragged himself from is tent, leaving the candles to burn themselves out. “Let no one in,” he told the guard who looked like he would rather be anywhere else but on the usurper's doorstep, “and send no one after me.”

“Sir.” the guard was standing at-attention, a form so rigid Mordred wondered if the other man had ever been trained or if he'd just had some armor stuck on him before being placed at the back of the camp. Mordred sniffed, a dismissive thing despite its inherent ambiguity.

His feet knew where he was going, and did not take him into any of the men who'd pledged their allegiance to the usurper instead of the Good King, any roots, any stones that may have tripped men less familiar with this once-hallowed ground.

The chapel, once the nearby town's place of worship, of gathering, of pride were pride allowed by their God and King alike had since fallen into disuse, the gods who still found life in the Old Ways reclaiming what was rightfully theirs to begin with.

He knelt in what he told himself was the last show of subservience he would ever willfully give and began to call on the gods his aunt had lead him to for any final guidance, and last rights should they deem him worthy. Eyes closed and soul open, he called upon the forces that never graced his father's life nor kingdom.

“Hmn,” a voice he knew but did not recognize immediately came instead, “Never thought you were the churchgoing type.”

Mordred's eyes flew open, head whipping around, looking for the owner of the voice. He saw him, sitting on what was left of the altar, looking as he had before his disappearance were it not for the bright light he emitted.

“You'd gone missing,” Mordred felt his tongue and lungs going without his permission, “Sir Bors said you were carried to Heaven by angels. It was a way to tell us you'd died without telling us you'd failed.”

“And yet,” the luminescent figure chuckled, “here I am.”

Mordred stared, the image of the – quite literally – enlightened Galahad burning itself into his eyes first, then deeper into his soul, then deeper again into his mind.

“What are you doing here?” Mordred finally asked.

“You called,” Galahad shrugged. It was simple when he said it, as if there could have been no other reason for him to appear before Mordred, resplendent, fair, strong, steady: a sharp contract to the chapel around them.

Galahad seemed stronger, healthier, wiser than he ever had before his disappearance – before his death. It was almost unfair, Mordred thought, that he should be the only one to see Galahad like this. Almost, though, because who left would he want to share such a sight left that was not as dead as the Knight in front of him was supposed to be.

“I called for the Old Gods,” Mordred shook his head despite the fear if he broke eye contact this version of Galahad would disappear, “for direction or last rights.”

“Hmn,” Galahad made a thoughtful sound and hopped off the altar, the stones and moss making quiet sounds under his leather-and-rawhide boots, “and which do you wish for more?”

“What do you mean?” Mordred narrowed his eyes and rose to his feet.

“Direction,” Galahad took a few steps towards Mordred, “or last rights.”

“Who am I to question the will of the Gods?” Mordred asked as he took three steps to the side to ensure he would be able to run should this Galahad be only a trick of the wizard who damned both him and his father in the first place.

“Well,” Galahad watched Mordred's uncoordinated partial flight from the situation with interest, “you did ask what I was doing here.”

“You say that like you're-” Mordred's thought broke off, “No. You're not. You couldn't be.”

“There are things that are both possible and beyond comprehension,” the Knight who'd been carried off by angels told the Knight who had become the usurper.

“If it is true,” Mordred shuffled sideways, closer to the pulpit, keeping his back away from Galahad as if that could protect him from any malice that may be lingering outside his awareness, “then I am in no position the decide which fate awaits me.”

“Are you not, though?” Galahad pivoted on his heels, slowly, keeping in time with Mordred's movements, keeping them perfectly in line with each other.

“I do what I must,” Mordred lowered his eyes for a moment before his attention snapped back to Galahad, a sudden surge of energy behind them this time, a clarity he had gained from the brief submission to that which he could not comprehend.

“But must you do this?” Galahad asked, “Must you take on your father in this exact way?”

“What other options have I been left with?” Mordred demanded answers as if a God-Galahad and Still-Very-Human-Mordred were still on equal footing.

“I'm sure you can think of some,” Galahad crossed his arms, unimpressed.

Mordred grunted, a frustration he had not felt since he was still a child in the eyes of those around him creeping in. He bumped into the altar with his hip, the once-perfect edges of the marble worn just enough with time they had lost their perfection, their holiness. He froze, unsure what to do next, where to go. Galahad smirked, amusement dancing across his features.

“So your armies and his armies meet on the field,” Galahad looked Mordred up and down, “and the attempt to negotiate a peace without bloodshed fails. What then do you expect?”

“I expect to win,” Mordred answered without hesitation, “His armies are already depleted by his war against Lancelot.”

“So that's it?” Galahad took a step towards Mordred, who looked around as if just noticing the wall behind the altar was still standing, still unbroken, “You take advantage of the war our fathers wage against each other to secure your place on the throne?”

“You knew??” Mordred yelled, eyes wide, “You knew he was my father??”

“Well, no,” Galahad sighed and finally uncrossed his arms, “But from where I stand now, I know all things.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Mordred said without the anger that came surging back as soon as those words are done, “Still, no, I would have taken up this charge, would have spearheaded this war, even with his armies at full strength.”

“It's a shame you did not have something to give yourself to before this,” Galahad spoke more as if making a note to himself than actually trying to converse with Mordred.

“My family is dead,” Mordred seethed, all too ready for whatever game the other was trying to get him to play to be over before he understood the stakes “My brothers, all save Gawain, dead at the hands of Lancelot's rebellion. Gawain, dead at Lancelot's hand in an attempt to redeem the rest of our brothers. My mother, dead by my brother's hand. The man I believed to be my father, dead by my actual father's hand.”

“So are you saying it's fitting you continue this downward trend of blood washing blood from this life?” Galahad seemed far less amused, focus narrowing and eyes narrowing. 

“I am saying that it is not without precedent,” Mordred growled, “and that what my fa-what he has already done is so far beyond reparation that war is the only thing left.”

“If it's the throne you wish so badly you could poison him,” Galahad pointed out.

“If it were only the throne I wanted I could wait him out,” Mordred scoffed, “Neither of us seem to be able to be taken out as so many of our brethren.”

“If not the throne, then what?” Galahad challenged, “Why would you lead so many men to their deaths?”

“They **follow** me,” Mordred was yelling, though of this he was not aware, “because they, too, believe I am right.”

“You are so sure you are right,” Galahad's own temper began to rise, “and yet have nothing to say regarding why!”

“A man who is willing to slaughter babies by the hundreds has no right to lead others!” Mordred had hoped to match Galahad's fury, but all he managed was to sound hysterical, “And a man weak enough to become puppet to a wizard who only cares about his version of prophecy is too dangerous a puppet to allow to live!”

“And you think that my own father had it any easier?” Galahad demanded, “Do you truly believe Lancelot is not guilty of the same things such that you would not march against him, too?”

“Lancelot was more a victim than a perpetrator,” Mordred snarled, “Any malice in your father's soul was a response to that which was forced upon him, not a choice! Even you were not a choice he made!”

Galahad took a step closer to Mordred, features pained and eyes furious. Mordred climbed onto the ruins of the altar and then onto his feet as if Galahad could not follow him there. Galahad simply looked slightly amused on top of the fury he carried.

Galahad took a step back and looked from the top of Mordred's head, down to what was left of the floor under the altar, then back up again. The fury bled out of him, only to be replaced by a sadness.

“You so truly believe your father – that Arthur is so beyond saving that death is a mercy to him and those he rules,” Galahad realized, “that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for it.”

“If I must,” Mordred seemed even more sure of himself, if not confused by Galahad's sudden change in temper, “Yes. I am doing this because it needs to be done, for everyone's sake.”

Galahad let out a sigh as if it could chase away the entire interaction, allow them both to start over from the moment this particular petition of Mordred's had been heard by the Gods themselves. All it did was make them both freeze as they were, Mordred's righteous indignation and Galahad's deepening sadness unable to reach their intended targets.

“Thank you,” Mordred was calm as he hopped down to the ground again, “for the direction.”

Galahad said nothing as Mordred left the ruins, headed back to his war tent.

“Were that it was direction I gave you,” Galahad said to the ghost Mordred would become.


End file.
